Sitting around the campfire! Telling stories! By myself!

I wonder if I'd look better or worse if I put my face in the fire for a few minutes.
The flames are beautiful and I could be, too.
I could be, but I shouldn't be.

I've noticed that my hands don't seem to notice me anymore.
They're busy with other things, I guess, pursuing interests I'm not interested in.
They'll smile and wave to me when they see me, but it's a small wave and a smaller smile, not meant to start anything, not meant to make me feel anything.

"How ya doin'?" they'd ask automatically, if they could speak.
Or maybe they wouldn't.
Maybe they'd insult me.

If my hands could speak, they'd insult me.

If I put my hands in the fire for a few minutes, they could look just like me.